Worm Donuts, Ugly Bees and Roast Fido
So at this point - after three days in Ha Noi - I’ve eaten my fare share of pho andbun cha and banh mi. It’s time for more exciting fare.
Today I am going to the Temple of Literature, an 11th century Confucian temple, home, I am told, to “a well preserved jewel of traditional Vietnamese architecture…five enclosed courtyards… and a peaceful reflecting pool.” City-center respites to the orgy of horns and exhaust – the army of motorbikes that criss-cross Hanoi.
On my map, an 11 x 8 ½ piece of printer paper from the hostel, there is an area labeled “Delicious Zone,” about halfway between the temple and myself.
Necessary stop #1
The delicious zone is, as I expected, a loud market spilling out of a dirty alleyway – generally the kind of place where you can expect to find some interesting, delicious, unpronounceable treats. Plastic blue children’s stools are festooned across the sidewalk, propping up old men sipping bia hoi – fresh beer – while wrinkled old women line the street to offer chicken guts and wriggling eels and other oddities.
The first thing that catches my eye is a woman making doughnuts. She kneads a gluey mass of chalk white dough, building a pocket into which she stuffs spices and grain, or, into others, brown sugar. Sweet and savory morning doughnut treats. I sit on her stool to watch, fascinated by her deft hands performing movements as instinctual as drawing breath. With a blinding speed she nimbly twists her chopsticks through the bubbling oil, flipping each little nugget as if floats in the wok. Around me, sizzles and smoke and scents carry through the air, the deep-fried morning in Ha Noi.
After two minutes of uncomfortable silence, (doughnut woman has yet to look up at me,) I ask, “How much for 1,” sticking my index finger in the air.
She raises five fingers in silence and offers me a scrap of old newsprint, never looking up. I hand over the money – 5000 dong (25 cents) – and grab one of the finished golden spheres nearest my perch, from the batch she was finishing as I arrived.
Walking away, I take a bite. Delicious fried dough. Surprisingly light and airy for the concrete appearance of the raw batter. Greasy constitution to a hungry morning traveler.
Walking away, I take a bite. Delicious fried dough. Surprisingly light and airy for the concrete appearance of the raw batter. Greasy constitution to a hungry morning traveler.
Bite two – new texture – an almost wet crunch, little pops between my teeth.
A third – more of the same. Now I look down at the proverbial ‘donut hole’ my teeth have ripped open. Worms. 100s of tiny grey and brown worms.
“Protein,” the amused part of my brain says, followed instantly by a very strong desire to throw the mass in my hand into the nearest trash can. But I am still right next to doughnut lady. My sense of moral embarrassment prevails. What? Am I too good to eat the things these people eat every day? It cost me a quarter for Christ’s’ sake. Also: until I looked at what I was eating, I was actually enjoying myself.
I manage to get down ¾ of the ‘doughnut’ before finding a shade covered bia hoistand. Two glasses of fresh brewed goodness and a bowl of raw, soft, wet peanuts and I’ve almost forgotten the worms.
I manage to get down ¾ of the ‘doughnut’ before finding a shade covered bia hoistand. Two glasses of fresh brewed goodness and a bowl of raw, soft, wet peanuts and I’ve almost forgotten the worms.
I’m almost feeling comfortable again. Deep into my book and getting deeper into my cups, beginning to see the possibility of a nice sun drunk afternoon stroll, when a prostitute in a baby blue tank top and matching gym shorts starts staring me down. I turn away and she walks to the other side of the street corner and continues her iron death stare. Like some hypnotized monkey, I can’t help but turn my head to look back at her. Tacky gold chains are draped over her pock-marked breasts, disappearing into a cleavage that is ballooning out of a bra that could maybe fit a 12 year old. I am grotesquely affixed to this dark crevice, like some kind of sickening horror show you can’t tear your eyes away from. As though it was a bad movie, she walks straight towards me and sits in the adjacent stool.
“I sit here,” a statement, not a question.
I turn and try to keep reading my book, hoping this bad dream will go away. I’m too tired: too drunk to try and take any proactive stance here.
After two minutes of uncomfortable silence she starts. “Where you from?”
“America”
“I live in Ha Noi. I am schoolteacher. Little children”
“That’s nice,” I say. It is anything but nice to think about this woman anywhere around little kids. If they did a COPS: HA NOI, this woman would be the crazy one fighting police with her shirt half ripped off.
“That’s nice,” I say. It is anything but nice to think about this woman anywhere around little kids. If they did a COPS: HA NOI, this woman would be the crazy one fighting police with her shirt half ripped off.
“What your name”
“Daniel”
“My name Queen Bee.”
“Daniel”
“My name Queen Bee.”
This is not going well. I start packing up my book, signaling to my adolescent waiter that I want to pay my tab. Suddenly, Queen Bee’s sidekick shows up – a preteen girl with a digital camera. She stands three feet away and points it at the two of us.
“Smile” the Queen commands; she drapes her arm around me, brushing her breasts against my elbow and laying her head on my shoulder. To say that my personal space felt a little compromise is something of an appalling understatement. Just before sidekick girl clicks the shutter, Queen Bee lunges and kisses my neck.
I jolt out of my seat, knocking Ms. Bee and the remainder of my beer on the ground. Literally running away from my table, I knock another three stools over in my haste to throw my backpack over my shoulders. Shoving a 20,000 note into my waiter’s hand, I march out to the laughter of the entire establishment, a collective of wizened old men who had watched the situation play out with ever-widening grins, whispering to each other what I can only assume were asinine comments about my idiocy.
I jolt out of my seat, knocking Ms. Bee and the remainder of my beer on the ground. Literally running away from my table, I knock another three stools over in my haste to throw my backpack over my shoulders. Shoving a 20,000 note into my waiter’s hand, I march out to the laughter of the entire establishment, a collective of wizened old men who had watched the situation play out with ever-widening grins, whispering to each other what I can only assume were asinine comments about my idiocy.
Whatever. I have the Literature Temple to look forward to.
The Temple, it turns out, is something of a one-stop shop for photo backgrounds. Local women are here in scores, dressed to the nines in traditional silk robes, with eager, pimply-faced young male photographers following them through the courtyards and ornamental gates. They take pictures in front of giant bells, next to the reflecting pool, peeking out from behind ornately carved doors; all the while the same vacant smile flits across their face. Empty submission. This is a temple wide photo shoot to capture the essence of the perfect simpering woman. It’s more than a little distracting.
But this is the Temple of Literature after all, so I find an almost secluded bench in the corner and try to enjoy my book. I succeed, and two hours pass quickly while I march through the pages. But soon my hunger comes back. A few bites of worm donut and two beers to not a meal make; and there was so much else at the Delicious Zone that I find myself walking back to where I was so recently terrified.
In France they eat horse. Apparently it tastes a lot like the way it smells. In Iceland they eat fermented shark meat. Apparently it tastes like shit. In China, chicken feet are a prized staple. They taste phenomenal when fried and covered in a spicy sause. In Vietnam they eat dog.
I’ve known this for a while, but didn’t expect to find it so easily. I thought I’d have to go searching for the special dog-centric restaurants. As such, it was to my surprise when I dodged an oncoming motorbike and bumped into a table piled high with roasted Jack Russell.
With the crisp golden skin I almost mistook it for a suckling pig. It even had the same crinkly looking ears that are so prized on roast pork. Its paws, however, along with the canine revealing snarl, dictated otherwise.
With a sort of boyish-glee I pointed to the one nearest and asked for a piece. After a complicated piece of negotiation (she wanted to sell me an entire dog) I was able to secure a slap of dog shoulder, violently hacked from the rest of the body by an old woman wielding a rusty cleaver. Skin still intact, I dug in, fingers rather than utensils.
Dog, it turns out, tastes a lot like beef. Blander, stringier beef. The skin was the best part. The crunch of pork without as much wet, dripping fat. It’s filling, dog, and not very tender, so when I was done with the shoulder I didn’t try to nipple the meat off the paw. I’d seen the stray dogs skirting nervously in and out of the city’s alleys. Their feet scrape against a lot of piss, shit and garbage juice. Then again, if I were on the menu, I’d be hiding anywhere I could too.
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